


The Scientist

by psychosocio



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: SO MUCH FLUFF, So much angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4248066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychosocio/pseuds/psychosocio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes can no longer hide the truth of his body's painful decay. When he has nothing left to lose, his worst nightmare comes to life. Will he be able to make it out alive, before his body can give no more? He might not get to fulfill his final wish...<br/>I'm not very good at summaries, so I will stall you no further.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Terrifying Truth

It was not a pleasure to burn.

In fact, it was quite unsettling, watching even the smallest flicker of a flame lick at the air surrounding it. Perhaps it was the idea that fire could be so changeable that Sherlock despised. Untamed, fire could burn the world down. When closely observed, it could be fascinating. He remembered that as a child, he would watch a candle simply flicker for days on end. He loved the sight of a yellow-orange flame and found it comforting whenever he was teased at school for being different. It was a constant in his variable-filled life. It was his rock that kept him grounded all while being his escape from reality. He could also remember the countless times he had been burned as a child. Most of the marks had faded with time, but one particularly nasty one remained on his left hip. Every time he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw the short twelve-year-old, being restrained while another boy held two candles against his skin, one pouring hot wax, the other simply burning the flesh with its heat. He hadn't understood why they would do this to him. He would always be careful with his deductions and made sure not one would cause him pain (he had learned this earlier on when little boys would stick pencils into his nose and step on his feet after unknowingly insulting them).

Burning was entertaining. Being burned is no fun. Sherlock was painfully reminded of this very concept in his late twenties when a certain man threatened to burn the heart out of him. He said he wanted to burn him. Because he was bored.

Little did this man know that Sherlock was already burning, little by little, since his adolescence. No one knew of his problem except Mycroft and their father; they couldn't tell Mummy, she would be devastated. Perhaps that wasn't the best decision, since she would have to find out the hard way.

Sherlock hadn't had more problems since he turned 18, but the doctors said that it was going to be quite a while before it showed up again. Up to 30 years, he had said. No less than 15. Sherlock's father knew only because he had the same problem. It was hereditary, but Mummy didn't know that. One would think that she would have figured it out already, but maybe she didn't want to know. Sherlock did that sometimes. He looked but some subconscious part of his vast mind must have prevented him from _seeing_. He could have seen if he wanted to, but he just didn't want to believe the truth. It was like that with Redbeard and Mary. Some part of him knew, but he didn't want to listen. It was all very irrational and didn't make sense, which was the very aspect that annoyed Sherlock beyond belief. He didn't like to not know.

So when Doctor John Watson showed him the x-ray of a rather large tumor in his heart, he simply nodded, somehow expecting this very moment to happen exactly when it did. Knowing that he didn't know was nerve wrecking, but actually knowing wasn't as reassuring as he thought it would be. It never would be when it came to this sort of thing. John Watson, ever-so faithful, loyal, loving John Watson, said nothing in response to Sherlock's silence.  They simply sat in the living room if 221B, quietly staring at each other with blank gazes.

Sooner or later, John glanced out the window and saw the darkness of night creeping into the sky. He was about to get out his phone to text Mary that he wouldn't be home for a while when Sherlock spoke for the first time in hours.

"John," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "Go home. Be with your wife and child."

"But Sherlock--"

He cut off John with an intense glare. Perhaps it would be less painful dying he he didn't have to see his best friend pitying him for the rest of his life. Whatever was left of it, anyway.

"Leave."

John closed his mouth and sat for another moment. After a while, he nodded curtly and made his way to the door. He put on his jacket and paused in the doorway. "You don't have to go through this alone, you know."

Sherlock refused to meet John's eyes and instead focused on the droplets of water clinging to the outside of the window. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

John let out a puff of air, something in between a scoff and a laugh. "Right." he turned on his heel and started down the stairs but stopped after a few steps. "You can always call me. If you ever need anything."

"Yes, I know. Thank you," Sherlock said with an annoyed, dismissive tone. "Lovely to see you again. Goodbye."

Sherlock waited to hear the front door slam before he closed his eyes and let himself feel. He felt raw emotions crawling into his thoughts, flooding all the rooms of his mind palace, slowly drowning his entire brain in grief, pain, fear. That was what he felt the most: sheer terror. He was faintly aware of his heart rate skyrocketing and he could hear his lungs squeezing before he took in a shallow breath just to squeeze tightly again. He would have been happy to die just then from a lack of oxygen. His face was streaked with tears, he realized, and he was gasping for breath after he screamed in anguish just moment ago. Thank goodness that Mrs. Hudson wasn't home for the time being, or else she would be fussing about him. She had gone out to play bridge with her friends. But Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he was glad she wasn't there. _No_ , he thought to himself. _Alone protects me. I'm in this alone._

A gentle voice broke through his watery thoughts: _Oh, come on, even you know that's the biggest lie you've ever told._

Sherlock smiled weakly as he connected a face to the voice coming from his mind palace. Auburn hair. Soft, brown eyes. Pink cheeks. Doctor Molly Hooper. Always protecting him from destroying himself.

He was vaguely aware of his phone ringing, a familiar sound that made him snap back to reality. The harsh ringing broke through the multifarious doors of his mind palace and fought to reach the sound. He opened his eyes and caught a glance at the coffee table above him. He was on the floor.

The ringing stopped. Then started again. It was Lestrade, then. Sherlock did his best to calm his breathing and sat up. He reached over to grab his phone. The vibration and ringing made him come back enough to speak.

"What is it, Lestrade?"

"Hello, Sherlock," a voice purred on the other end, obviously not the Detective Inspector. The person had an Irish accent. Or maybe American? Sherlock was still somewhat disoriented and couldn't totally focus.

Sherlock frowned at the unfamiliar voice. "Who is this? Where's Lestrade?"

"Don't you recognize me?" the voice asked. It was a man. Definitely Irish. "Pity. Now you really owe me."

Sherlock shook his head in an attempt to clear the fog. "What are you talking about?"

"Ah, ah, ah, ah, Sherlock," the man sang. "You know exactly what I'm talking about." He paused, waiting for a response. "Oh, come on. This is too easy. Staying alive? BOORRIIIIING."

Sherlock sat straighter, his eyes widening, his ears beginning to recognize the man's voice.

"I just had to ask . . . Did you miss me?"

The line went dead and Sherlock's head spun. _An Irish man. I.O.U. Staying Alive. Boring. Did you miss me?_

**_Moriar_ _ty_.**

 


	2. Contact

Sherlock's hands trembled as he dialed his brother's number on his phone. He tried to steady his breath again, wincing as his attempts shot needle-like pain through his chest. The phone kept ringing . . . Ringing . . .

"What is it _now_ ," Mycroft said, exhaustion lacing his voice.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to breathe. All that came out was a wheeze and a strained, " _Mycroft_."

There was a short silence on the elder brother's end. "Sherlock? What is it? What's the matter?"

Sherlock tried to breathe again, succeeding a bit. "Mycroft, do you think . . . Come by Baker Street . . . "

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

He hung up the phone, leaving Sherlock to prepare himself to attend to Mycroft. He dragged himself to the couch and pulled on the backrest to lay flat on his belly. He would remain there, trying to breathe, until the front door burst open and two sets of feet barreled up the stairs. One was Mycroft. The other was much heavier, most likely one of his body guards.

Mycroft came through the living room door and did a double take as he saw his brother lying face-down on the couch.

" _Sherlock,_ " he said as he fell to his knees next to the younger Holmes.

"Sentiment, brother dear." Sherlock turned his head toward Mycroft and smirked at him. He felt a strange pleasure in seeing his brother in such a state.

"Sherlock, you _idiot_." Mycroft said, breathing out. "That's what you called me for?"

"No," Sherlock said, pushing his body up to a sitting position. He did feel a bit better now, so the blackness in his vision was less than when John had left. Mycroft's hands aided him along the way.

They both sat on the couch next to each other while Sherlock caught his breath again.

"Two things," Sherlock said. He turned his head so that he could look his brother in the eye. "John came by and showed me that envelope there." He motioned to the large manila envelope sitting on the coffee table.

Mycroft picked it up, quickly removing its contents. He paused when he saw that there were transparent plastic sheets: the results of a medical scan. He held them up to the light with shaking hands, one by one, until he had examined them all. He sighed and quietly put the scan results back into the envelope. "Sherlock--"

"We both knew this was coming," the younger brother interrupted. "That's not important right now."

Mycroft's head whipped toward his brother. "What do you mean? Of course it is! If anything, it's the most important!"

" _Mycroft_ ," Sherlock sighed. "He's made contact."

The elder brother froze. "When?"

Sherlock picked up his phone and looked onto the 'received calls' list. "Twenty three minutes ago."

.O.o.o.O.

Weeks passed before Sherlock received any news concerning Moriarty. In those weeks, he had contacted his father through the post and sent him the x-rays. It would take approximately five days to reach their country home. He also resorted to the lab in St. Bart's for a source of distraction, watching Molly work and doing some experiments himself. He knew full well that he had plenty equipment at home, as did Molly, but he simply didn't want to be at Baker Street. He spent a couple of days staring at the wall from his chair, feeling despair and grief while not being able to do anything. After those days of visiting the darkest corners of his mind palace, he decided that he'd rather not be alone all the time. 

Molly was curious but did not question his sudden presence at St. Bart's. He would follow her around everywhere, except to the loo and whenever she got something to snack on. He assisted her in autopsies, worked alongside her in the lab, even helped with paperwork.  _ That _ was odd. Sherlock had always hated paperwork. Something was  _ definitely _ wrong if he wanted to help with  _ that _ . She decided to bring him coffee every now and then to show him that she was there if he wanted to talk. The only times he spoke beyond a muttered thanks was during autopsies, where his observations were required for Molly's recordings. She was very worried about him.

John searched for Sherlock everywhere he went, looking in all the possible places, after he went to visit 221B and the detective was not home. His heart raced when he saw that his best friend was gone. He was worried what the news had done to him and what Sherlock would do to himself. A few days passed before the idea to look in St. Bart's occurred to John. When he got there, he saw Sherlock sitting at a microscope, inspecting whatever specimen he had gotten his hands on. He sighed in relief as soon as his eyes had fallen upon the dark-haired man. He noticed that a certain pathologist's head popped up at the sound, and she smiled up at him in greeting. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding between the three to be silent, so John looked around for something to do. He picked up some paperwork off of Molly's desk and read through the papers. He looked up at Molly, as if asking for permission, clearing his throat softly to get her attention. He knew that this small interruption would go unnoticed by Sherlock, who was deep in concentration. Molly looked up to see John holding up the paperwork, and she smiled gratefully and nodded. The three continued like that, John coming in around noon to work on whatever he could while Molly and Sherlock did their own things.

Sherlock and Mycroft didn't contact each other, both knowing that each was doing what he could. In Sherlock's case, he could do nothing but wait. Mycroft spent all his resources trying to find the fiend while still worrying about his little brother. He would never show it, but he was worse off than Sherlock because of the scans. He decided that he would focus solely on finding Moriarty. For the sake of England. 


	3. Get Molly Hooper

Sherlock went again to the lab to clear his head and was only partly surprised when he saw that John was there too. He nodded slightly as a greeting and sat down at the microscope next to Molly's laptop. Digging through his pocket, he seized a napkin with a sample of mold he scraped from the bottom of the fridge. He took the fuzzy grey substance and made a wet slide in order to observe its properties. As he focused the microscope, he himself was not focused on the task at hand. Moriarty's face kept popping into his mind palace, whispering into his ear.

"I . . . owe . . . you . . . " he muttered subconsciously.

He kept working, changing slides. Someone handed him some petri dishes and said, "Your cultures are done, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John."

"Molly."

 _Oh_. "Yes."

There was an awkward silence between the two, but Sherlock did his best to make it appear he was working hard on examining this particular slide. All thoughts were disrupted again by Molly's soft voice.

"What did you mean, ' _I owe you_ '?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to John, who crossed the room at that moment. John still didn't know about Moriarty. Even though he knew about the other thing that was slowly killing him, he didn't necessarily need to know about the one that struck more fear into his heart. This was because he knew that Moriarty would very well hurt his loved ones apart from him while his disease would hurt only him. No one else.

"You said, 'I owe you.' You were muttering it while you were working."

"Nothing," he responded, lowering his gaze back to the microscope lens. "Mental note."

Once again, awkward silence. Sherlock directed his attention to the cultures that Molly had given him. He took a knife and prepared a wet slide with the bit of bacteria in the center. He put the slide under the microscope and again looked into the lens. All his motions were automatic, and his facial expression turned a little sadder.

"You're a bit like my dad," Sherlock heard to his right. "He's dead." Molly cringed. "No, sorry--"

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation," he said, feeling somewhat annoyed by her interruptions. "It's really not your area."

"When he was dying," she soldiered on, "he was always cheerful. He was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see.  I saw him once. He looked sad."

Sherlock was beginning to lose his patience. " _Molly_ ," he said sternly.

" _You_ look sad--" she said, glancing toward John "--when you think he can't see you."

Sherlock looked up at John, who was sitting on a bench, looking through some papers, unaware of the conversation unraveling between the detective and the pathologist. A needle of pain shot through his chest and he felt his mood dampen further. He looked up at Molly, feeling both glad and terrified that she could read him so easily.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked. Before Sherlock could answer, she interrupted him. "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

Sherlock raised his chin and challenged her. " _You_ can see me."

Molly smiled briefly and shook her head. "I don't count."

Sherlock was taken aback for a moment and looked at Molly. _Really_ looked at her. How could such an awkward pathologist, a near-genius, be so insufferably _idiotic_? Did she really think that she meant absolutely _nothing_ to him? She meant _everything_. Sherlock froze in his thoughts, stopping short. _What just happened?_

"What I'm trying to say," Molly continued, "is that--if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all . . . you can have me." She took in a little breath, acknowledging the double-meaning to her words. "No, I just mean . . . I mean, if there's anything you need . . . it's fine." She shook her head, turning her way.

Sherlock felt any words or breath elude him. At last, he thought of something to say. "Wh--what--what could I need from you?" _Did I just stutter_?

Molly turned back to him. "Nothing. I dunno," she added, shrugging. "You could probably say thank you, actually."

She nodded, seemingly confirming to herself what she just said. Sherlock again could not for the life of him think of something else to say, so his mouth twitched in annoyance. Annoyance directed not entirely at Molly, but also at himself for becoming so dimwitted in front of someone he could always sway with words. His eyebrows drew together and he forced out the only words that his mind could formulate as a response. " . . . Thank you."

Sherlock turned away as Molly started to walk towards the door, trying to figure out why he couldn't speak. "I'm just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but once again she interrupted him. "It's okay, I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I'll--"

"I know you don't."

 

.O.o.o.O.

 

"You're wrong, you know."

Molly startled and spun around, one hand on the front pocket of her purse, where she knew she had pepper spray, and the other against her chest in surprise. A man stepped out of the shadows of the lab and she recognized him as the man she was hopelessly in love with. _Sherlock_.

"You do count." He continued to take slow steps toward Molly. "You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right," he added, stopping a few feet in front of her. "I'm not okay."

Molly didn't hesitate to respond. "Tell me what's wrong."

Sherlock shook his head silently and began to take a step back. When he looked back up, his eyes were glimmering in the dim light with what looked like tears. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."

Molly felt her heart sink in fear. "What do you need?"

Sherlock seemed reluctant to respond and took a full step back before speaking. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am," he asked quietly, "everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

Molly felt as if she were speaking to a frightened deer and spoke with a calming tone. "What do you need?"

Sherlock took one large step forward and closed the gap between them. His eyes gazed into hers and all Molly could see was pale blue. "You."

His eyes bore into hers and she could feel the disparity in them, the panic, the sadness. Molly nodded immediately. "Of course."

Sherlock slumped forward and wrapped his arms around Molly's thin frame and sighed in relief. Molly hugged him back after a moment of shock when she heard a strangled cry next to her ear. " _I need you, Molly Hooper_."

.O.o.o.O.

"There's nothing quite like it," Sherlock whispered.

Molly continued to thread her fingers through his hair, seeing as it seemed to be the only thing that actually calmed him down enough to allow him to think. He seemed to be doing just that, thinking with his eyes closed, his head in her lap, his long legs hanging off the edge of the couch. "Quite like what?" Molly asked.

"Knowing." Sherlock looked up at Molly with heavily lidded eyes. "It's quite terrifying, knowing that I'm going to die any day now."

Molly frowned and tugged lightly at his hair. "Don't say that."

Sherlock shrugged and closed his eyes again. It seemed as though he would not speak again for the rest of the night. Molly sighed for what seemed like the millionth time that evening. She looked down at the position of her hands and realized that her free hand wasn't actually free but intertwined in Sherlock's against his chest. Their hands were right above his heart and Molly concentrated on his pulse. The pulse that was blood rushing through Sherlock's veins, infected blood that was killing him. His pulse could stop right then, or whenever it felt like.

"Molly," Sherlock said and squeezed her hand.

She opened her eyes and felt tears spill from them, onto Sherlock's face. His face was already wet by the time Molly had opened her eyes. When had she started crying? "Oh, I'm sorry--"

Sherlock reached his hand up and cupped Molly's cheek. "It's alright, Molly. I know." His eyebrows scrunched together as he clenched his jaw and looked away for a moment. He was trying not to cry, Molly realized. "I'm bloody terrified. I imagine you feel the same way, I know I would if we switched positions."

Molly smiled feebly and brushed the pad of her thumb across his forehead. "Thank you," she said, not entirely sure why.

Sherlock didn't seem to know either, based on the confusion that flashed over his face for a brief moment, but he nodded anyway and closed his eyes again. He dropped his hand onto his stomach and sighed quietly. After a few minutes, his breathing evened out and Molly was left watching him sleep. His mouth opened slightly, his hands loose, his hair in disarray. Molly hadn't stopped combing her fingers through his hair, and she hoped that she was an aid in helping Sherlock finally fall asleep. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep for weeks. Who knew, perhaps he hadn't. Molly leaned her head back as she felt sleep stir behind her eyes, making them droop. Soon, they were both asleep on Molly's couch in her apartment.

No one would interrupt them until the next day when Lestrade would call both their cell phones repeatedly in a panic, and when neither of them answered, he would send officers all over London to search for them. Mycroft was looking too, for he shared Lestrade's despair. No one could deny: James Moriarty, consulting criminal, was back in London, and he wanted Sherlock. 


	4. Jim

A soft melody rose from the windows of an apartment that stood above the busy street in London. Light fingers dragged across the smooth, white keys of a piano, eliciting beautiful notes that formed a concerto. His eyes were closed and he swayed slightly with the sounds. Nothing occupied his mind right now; it was completely and pleasantly blank. He had learned piano as a child, his mother always encouraging him to continue despite his disinterest. Sometimes it got so boring, and no one else in his class could play as well as he. When he turned nine, he participated in a concert where all of his classmates would perform. He was going to play the “Flight of the Bumblebee” and for the first time, he was excited. He got on stage, a serious expression on his face as he took his seat and positioned his fingers on the keys. As soon as he began to play, he heard talking in the crowd. He glanced over and saw people looking away, chatting about something or the other (he had gotten quite good at reading lips), some were even replaying videos on their cameras of their child performing while he was playing the piece perfectly. His fingers twitched in anger and played a wrong note, which led to another, and his fingers were moving so fast that he couldn’t stop them. They were out of control, playing everything all at once until he pushed himself from the piano angrily. Now everyone was staring at him, giving him disapproving looks. These stupid, ordinary people deserved to burn. 

“Sir.”

Jim opened his eyes and found himself hunched over the piano, harshly playing the keys, leaving bruises on his fingertips. He breathed heavily and sat back up, recoiling from the piano. Composing himself, he took a cleansing breath and stood up, buttoning the button on his suit jacket on the way. He glanced at his right-hand, Sebastian Moran. He stood there with carefully hidden concern, but obviously Jim could see right through him. He grimaced at the emotion and scoffed it away. 

“What have you found?”

Sebastian handed him some papers, photos, maps, and other documents. “There are a number of locations he could be at, but I’ve narrowed it down to eight establishments.” 

Jim skimmed over the texts and photographs, tossing away the ones that didn’t matter, humming along to the music he decided to play in his head. Partita No. 1 seemed appropriate for the moment. Finished, he handed back the thinned pile to Sebastian. “And then there were three,” he said jokingly, walking off toward his office. 

The three which remained:  
Baker Street  
The Watson household  
Dr. Molly Hooper


End file.
